Chapter 9
Jem wasn’t sure he’d understood. The words didn’t make sense.
“Someone hit him?” he asked. “What do you mean?” But before Tean could answer, he said, “He didn’t fall?”
Tean drew a finger around Gerald’s head, kind of like he was following a line. “Head injuries from falls typically occur in a specific region.” He moved his finger up toward the wound on Gerald’s head. “The location of this injury isn’t consistent with a fall.”
Larsen hadn’t said anything. He folded his arms across his chest.
“What is it consistent with?” Jem asked. He didn’t mean to sound like he was copying the doc; the words just came out of him.
“Blunt-force trauma.” Tean made a gesture to the wound. “A laceration occurs when the skin splits from trauma. There are distinctive edges to the wound. That’s what I see here.”
“And you think somebody did this to him,” Jem said. But finally his brain was catching up with him, and he said, “Of course somebody did. I mean, if he didn’t fall, then somebody hit him.” He let go of Gerald’s leg long enough to rub snowmelt from his beard. “You’re saying somebody killed him.”
Tean didn’t answer; he raised his head toward Larsen.
The cop—ex-cop—was still standing there, arms folded across his chest. Nothing showed on his face. “That’s a pretty big conclusion to draw for a wildlife veterinarian.”
“Tean’s the smartest person you’re ever going to meet,” Jem said. “If he says Gerald was murdered, then Gerald was murdered.”
“All I’m saying is that this injury isn’t consistent with a fall,” Tean said evenly. “If I were conducting a necropsy, I’d also note the absence of debris in the wound.”
“The snow—” Larsen began.
“Fuck the snow,” Jem said. “Somebody hit him on the back of the head.” And then—finally—his brain sparked. “Where’s his cane?”
Larsen glanced around, as though maybe he’d forgotten about the cane.
“You found his stuff,” Jem said. “His wallet. I bet you’ve got his phone. But where’s his cane?”
“I’m not sure about the cane,” Larsen said slowly. “We’d need to check the site of the—we’d need to see where he was found. But we didn’t find a phone.” He plucked a plastic bag from a shelf and passed it over. “The wallet.”
Cash, credit cards, driver’s license. Jem pulled out the room key and sealed the plastic bag. Then he set it on the shelf again.
Tean was shivering harder than ever, huddled next to the cart. “Mr. Larsen, I understand that you need the medical examiner to determine the cause and manner of death. But if I’m correct—”
“Then this is a homicide investigation,” Larsen said, and the fatigue was even more obvious in his voice now. “And there’s evidence we need to preserve.”
“Can you make sure no one else accesses this building?”
Larsen huffed a breath. “With weather like this, I don’t even want my people going outside. But yeah, I’ll lock up and tell them this building is off-limits.”
“We need to see where you found him,” Jem said.
“He’s a wildlife veterinarian.” Larsen shot a look at Jem. “You’re not police.”
“Definitely not.”
“I’ve conducted forensic investigations into animal attacks,” Tean said. “And we’ve assisted the medical examiner’s office with adjacent investigations.”
Jem had no idea how far Tean could stretch the phrase adjacent investigations, but he knew Tean had just come as close to lying as the doc ever got. “Besides, you don’t have anybody else.”
Larsen’s mouth tightened.
“You were a cop,” Jem said.
“That’s right: was. Retired here for the peace and quiet.”
Tean peeled off the gloves as he got to his feet. He wobbled once, and his breath no longer steamed in the cold air. “How many murders did you handle?”
“None. But I know how to run an investigation. It was a small town, but we did things right.”
The head of security sounded like he expected pushback, but Tean only nodded and said, “Let’s start with where he was found.”
With a snort, Larsen shook his head. “Not like that. You got a coat? Gloves?”
“We were in a hurry,” Jem said.
“Let’s go back to the lodge. You get geared up, and we’ll meet in the lobby.”
They made their way back through the howling wind and spinning snow. Twice, Tean slipped in the thickening drifts, and after the second time, Jem got hold of his arm and held on.
A wall of warm air, the smell of frying bacon, the clink of silverware on plates, laughter, conversation—stepping into the lobby was like stepping into another world.
Tean bent at the waist to shake snow out of his hair.
Larsen ran a hand over his head like he was a duck, sluicing away the snowmelt.
Jem just shook himself all over—a trick he’d picked up from Scipio—and figured that would do.
A group of twentysomethings lounged on one of the seating clusters, drinking mimosas, showing each other videos on their phones, laughing.
The bellboy was talking to an older woman, nodding at whatever she was saying.
At the front desk, the staff looked as crisp and fresh as ever.
But not all the lights were on, and as Jem’s body adjusted to the temperature, he realized the lobby was cooler than it had been the night before, with most of the heat coming from the fireplace.
How many people had noticed? Surely some of them.
They’d definitely notice once the bacon and mimosas ran out. Or when they couldn’t charge their phones.
Larsen waved Tean and Jem off and headed for the front desk, and Jem followed Tean to the elevator.
They rode up to their floor. A middle-aged couple rode with them.
The woman kept adjusting her necklace in the mirror.
The man was staring at the slowly growing puddle forming under Jem’s and Tean’s shoes.
“We murdered Frosty,” Jem told him. “It was a bloodbath. I mean, a snow bath.”
The man’s eyes widened. Then he yanked his gaze forward, and the rest of the ride he pretended they weren’t there. After about two minutes, the woman—still working on the necklace—asked, “What did he say about snow?”
When they got out of the elevator, Tean was giving Jem a look.
“He was being rude,” Jem said.
“H-he started it?” Tean was still shivering. “T-that’s your defense?”
“Well, and it was funny. Hey, are you okay?”
“F-fine.”
“Babe, you’re like ice. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. You shouldn’t have been out there that long.”
“I’m—” But Tean ruined it because he shivered so hard that for a moment, he couldn’t speak. “—f-fine.”
Jem steered him down the hall. “It’s because you have zero body fat.”
“J-Jem.”
“It’s because you don’t eat enough McDonald’s.”
“I d-don’t think—”
“The special sauce is like lube—”
Tean’s eyes got extra big behind the glasses.
“No! No. Nope. Not what I meant. Like, for your, um, arteries. Like a lubricant for your arteries.”
“P-please stop,” Tean said.
“Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?” Jem slapped the keycard against the lock. It flashed green, and he shouldered the door open. “You’ve got to warm up before we go back out there.”
“J-Jem, I’m f-fine. I d-do this a-all the t-time for work—”
“With your big, butch coat. And that cute hat. And those gloves, the ones like you’re about to climb Mount Everest.”
“The h-hat’s n-not c-cute—” Tean tried to protest as Jem planted him on the fireplace’s hearth. Jem tapped the remote control, and flames sprang up, followed a moment later by a wave of heat.
“Sit there,” Jem said.
Tean opened his mouth.
“Sit!” Jem offered a lopsided grin. “Stay!”
“Oh m-my g-gosh,” Tean mumbled, but he was chafing his hands and angling his body toward the fire.
“I’m going to get your coat. Do you want anything else?”
“W-we d-don’t h-have anything else.”
“I know, but it’s polite to ask.”
It was hard to tell with the glasses sometimes, but Jem was pretty sure Tean rolled his eyes.
Jem moved toward the bed and, beyond it, the closet.
The room was even more of a mess than he remembered.
The sheets had been pushed down to the foot of the bed.
One of the dresser drawers was pulled out partway.
Even the stuff on the desk—the informational materials for the hotel, the lamp, the phone—looked like it had been moved.
He must have bumped it when he’d answered the phone half-asleep—
The back of his brain was still catching up with him as he reached the closet and stretched out a hand.
The closet door flew open. A hanger shot through the air in the direction of Jem’s head.
He dodged, but another followed, and he stepped back.
He had a vague impression of a person inside the closet—the shadows, and the hangers, made it hard to make out anything more than a general shape and size—and then something bulky landed on his head, and he couldn’t see anything.
Jem did the smart thing: he moved backward. He waved an arm, but that was instinct: knives, fists, kicks to the balls. With his other hand, he tried to yank off whatever was covering his head.
Someone shoved him, and he lost his balance. He caught something with the back of his leg, and his knee buckled, and he went down.
Footsteps.
Tean shouting, “S-stop!”
A door slamming.
Drag it off, whatever the fuck it is.
The smell of wool.
Fresh air.
Light.
A hot spot the size of an apple on the back of his leg.
Jem rolled onto all fours, scrambled up, hand dipping into his pocket for the telescoping antenna.
On the floor in front of him lay a spare blanket.
The closet door was open. The closet empty.
Tean was on his feet, jaw dropped.
They were alone.
Jem took a step, winced, and massaged the back of his leg. “What the fuck?”
“I-it was t-that w-woman,” Tean said. “T-the one w-who was w-watching me at the b-bar last night.”